"Why shouldn't they?" I persisted. "In hockey, footer, billiards and the other arts certain movements are inevitably followed by certain consequences. It ought to be the same in music. However, as a poet it is the words which really interest me. Listen to this: 'Somebody whispered to me yestre'en, Somebody whispered to me, And my heart gave a flutter and—' Ah, of course I know—and I trod on the butter."
"Which soon wasn't fit to be seen," said Clarice.
"Bravo," I said, "very soulful. Now look at the one above it: 'The rosy glow of summer is on thy dimpled cheek, While——' There's a poser for you."
"Oh, how pretty!" said Clarice. "And listen to the tune." She played what notes there were two or three times over. "I really must get that one," she added.
"Do," I said. "I should like to hear more about that girl. These publishers know how to whet one's appetite, don't they? By Jove, here's a gem—'I sat by the window dreaming, In the hush of eventide, Of the——' Now what does one dream about at that time?"
"You dream of dinner chiefly, I've noticed," said Clarice.
"That's the idea," I said. "Of the soup (tomato) steaming, The steak and mushrooms fried. Who's the publisher?"
"Crammer," said Clarice.
I took up another sheet of music and hunted for more treasure. "Here's something fruity," I said, "published by Scarey and Co.: 'Oh, the lover hills are happy at the dawning of the day; There are winds to kiss and bless us, there is——'"
"What?" said Clarice.